Nestled in the foothills of Provo, beneath the gleaming white Y that's painted on the face of the mountain, a water park gurgles thirstily to itself. This is Seven Peaks Water Park, a place that I have been going to, almost every summer, since I was I don't know how old (the old park, Raging Waters, falling out of favor). Now that I have children of my own, a modest budget, and ample summer time, we decided to visit Seven Peaks and swim around for a few hours this morning.
As we pulled in, my boys--who were rather excited about the day's activity--wondered aloud about the parking situation. "Pay When You Leave?" asked my seven year old, reading the sign in the parking lot. "What does that mean?"
"Instead of paying right now, we'll pay on our way out," I said.
"How much does it cost?" he said (I imagine; this is partially paraphrased).
"Seven dollars."
"Wow! That's a lot!"
"Yup."
I guess there's some tidy symbolism in having a place called "Seven Peaks" cost "seven dollars" to park, but it's probably not that profound. We went in--no outside food allowed, we learned, necessitating a quick trip back to the car to drop off the cooler full of snacks--and swam in some of the attractions.
What was more noticeable--above and beyond the quantities of bikinis and the unimaginative varieties in men's swimwear--was how few attractions were running. One body slide, a couple of tube-required slides, a kiddie pool, and a wave pool. Before we left, the Lazy River attraction opened up, but it was too cold to float in for more than a lap.
We passed the late morning pleasantly enough, and the boys enjoyed what they were given. However, as we drifted along the Lazy River, my oldest asked why so many of the attractions were closed. I knew what he meant: An entire section of the park was roped off, most of the multi-story slides were, too. Water features, like waterfalls, were turned off. "It's all to save money," I explained. "We have a Pass of All Passes, which gives us free admission to the park. They stay open simply by people buying food from the concessions. That isn't enough to maintain the entire park."
My son was unimpressed. Of course, we got home from Disneyland only a couple weeks ago, so there's definitely a "spared no expense" expectation that we had accustomed ourselves to during the worship of the Mouse in Anaheim.
Then, in the wave pool, I looked up at the drought-laden mountains, yellow in their desperation for a drink. (I see similarly parched hills outside of my office window, as I write this.) Surrounding me, lapping in a pale imitation of an actual ocean (again, spoiled by our time in California), the wave pool contained tens of thousands of gallons of water, its exclusive use being to make us think we were back on the beach. In other words, we were surrounded by excess--and not simple excess, but extravagant excess. I don't believe for a minute that the mountain would be green if Seven Peaks closed down, because it was the distillation of capitalism all around me that really made me think.
Now, I don't normally rant about the problems with capitalism--I'm trying to be less pessimistic--and if you think that capitalism is, I dunno, God-given and therefore unassailable, you may wish to stop reading here. For me, there really is a symbolism in Seven Peaks as I've described it. Not only is the necessity changed from necessity into commodity into entertainment (water into chlorinated water into a park where you pay to play in the modified water), but it's within sight of deprivation of the very necessity that has been commodified. Drought without, excess and waste within.
And yet, within the excess, there were still signs of malaise--the closed attractions, the dull-eyed, underpaid employees (no Disney smiles plastered on their faces here, no sir). Entire segments of the excess were dismissed, abandoned, their worth not fundamental enough for the bottom line to ensure their continued use. Capitalism at its sense, at its core, at its most extreme, its most seeming-natural.
I sat in this pool, surrounded by other people, enjoying the benefits of the park, and stared at the dying mountain.
There's something about being wet in a desert that really makes me think.
As we pulled in, my boys--who were rather excited about the day's activity--wondered aloud about the parking situation. "Pay When You Leave?" asked my seven year old, reading the sign in the parking lot. "What does that mean?"
"Instead of paying right now, we'll pay on our way out," I said.
"How much does it cost?" he said (I imagine; this is partially paraphrased).
"Seven dollars."
"Wow! That's a lot!"
"Yup."
I guess there's some tidy symbolism in having a place called "Seven Peaks" cost "seven dollars" to park, but it's probably not that profound. We went in--no outside food allowed, we learned, necessitating a quick trip back to the car to drop off the cooler full of snacks--and swam in some of the attractions.
What was more noticeable--above and beyond the quantities of bikinis and the unimaginative varieties in men's swimwear--was how few attractions were running. One body slide, a couple of tube-required slides, a kiddie pool, and a wave pool. Before we left, the Lazy River attraction opened up, but it was too cold to float in for more than a lap.
We passed the late morning pleasantly enough, and the boys enjoyed what they were given. However, as we drifted along the Lazy River, my oldest asked why so many of the attractions were closed. I knew what he meant: An entire section of the park was roped off, most of the multi-story slides were, too. Water features, like waterfalls, were turned off. "It's all to save money," I explained. "We have a Pass of All Passes, which gives us free admission to the park. They stay open simply by people buying food from the concessions. That isn't enough to maintain the entire park."
My son was unimpressed. Of course, we got home from Disneyland only a couple weeks ago, so there's definitely a "spared no expense" expectation that we had accustomed ourselves to during the worship of the Mouse in Anaheim.
Then, in the wave pool, I looked up at the drought-laden mountains, yellow in their desperation for a drink. (I see similarly parched hills outside of my office window, as I write this.) Surrounding me, lapping in a pale imitation of an actual ocean (again, spoiled by our time in California), the wave pool contained tens of thousands of gallons of water, its exclusive use being to make us think we were back on the beach. In other words, we were surrounded by excess--and not simple excess, but extravagant excess. I don't believe for a minute that the mountain would be green if Seven Peaks closed down, because it was the distillation of capitalism all around me that really made me think.
Now, I don't normally rant about the problems with capitalism--I'm trying to be less pessimistic--and if you think that capitalism is, I dunno, God-given and therefore unassailable, you may wish to stop reading here. For me, there really is a symbolism in Seven Peaks as I've described it. Not only is the necessity changed from necessity into commodity into entertainment (water into chlorinated water into a park where you pay to play in the modified water), but it's within sight of deprivation of the very necessity that has been commodified. Drought without, excess and waste within.
And yet, within the excess, there were still signs of malaise--the closed attractions, the dull-eyed, underpaid employees (no Disney smiles plastered on their faces here, no sir). Entire segments of the excess were dismissed, abandoned, their worth not fundamental enough for the bottom line to ensure their continued use. Capitalism at its sense, at its core, at its most extreme, its most seeming-natural.
I sat in this pool, surrounded by other people, enjoying the benefits of the park, and stared at the dying mountain.
There's something about being wet in a desert that really makes me think.